


Manners

by The_Cool_Aunt



Series: DISPATCH BOX [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Arthur Conan Doyle Canon References, Boys Kissing, Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Music, Mycroft's Meddling, Naked Cuddling, Naked Sherlock, Naughty Sherlock, Victorian, Victorian Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-12
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-04-20 08:02:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4779902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Cool_Aunt/pseuds/The_Cool_Aunt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John find a novel way of dealing with a holiday visit to Mycroft—one that involves locking the door. Thank goodness for adjoining rooms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Manners

Sherlock collapsed onto my bed, groaning. “This is horrible.”  
  
“You’re being far too melodramatic,” I commented from my seat by the fire. “It’s not nearly as bad as all that.”  
  
“No? Tomorrow there’s to be a concert.”  
  
“What is your objection to that? You usually like concerts.”  
  
“I will be the one performing.” He stared at the canopy over the bed in agony.  
  
I couldn’t help it. I chuckled as I rose and walked over to him. “You love to play and you love an audience,” I reprimanded. “You wouldn’t have brought your violin otherwise.”  
  
He glared at me. “I love to play for you,” he corrected. “Not Mycroft’s ‘people.’”  
  
I sat on the bed next to him. “Well, then, whilst you’re playing, imagine that I am the only one listening.”  
  
“He’s even chosen the pieces,” he added miserably.  
  
“I’m sorry. What can I do to cheer you up?” I myself was in a lovely mood and thoroughly enjoying our holiday. The food had been excellent; the accommodations luxurious. The other visitors had been—I admit—a bit “higher up” than I, and some had clearly been uncomfortable with my humble career and status, but I didn’t care. I sat on the bed next to him and looked up at the canopy myself. Nothing seemed amiss.  
  
“Join the shooting party,” he pouted. “See that there’s a horrible ‘accident.’”  
  
“Sherlock!” I admonished. “That’s going a bit too far.”  
  
“I’m not saying shoot him dead. Just… nick him a bit. Take the wind out of his sails.”  
  
“You are a ridiculous man,” I told him, shaking my head.  
  
He tore his eyes from the canopy and turned his head to look at me. He glanced at my face, and then down at my hand.  
  
Oh. Yes. My hand. My hand that was on his arm, stroking it gently.  
  
“You had too much to drink at dinner,” he admonished teasingly.  
  
“No, I didn’t,” I argued, and I really hadn’t. I was far too aware of attending to which fork and to whom I was to be speaking and on what topics I could venture opinions to allow myself to relax. After dinner, though—all right, I was splitting hairs. I had not had too much to drink at dinner, but afterward I had relaxed a bit as the men gathered for cigars and some cards. I still had not gone overboard, but at that moment I was feeling calm and pleasant.  
  
“Then why not have some more now? I can have some of that nice port you were commenting on brought up.”  
  
I considered it. We were on holiday. We were staying in a very well-appointed, well-staffed manor house. I had been on my best behaviour so far (I will not address Sherlock’s behaviour other than to say that both his brother and I were getting rather tired of reprimanding him). We were alone in my room for the evening, Sherlock already in his dressing gown.  
  
“Actually, yes, that would be quite nice,” I replied.  
  
“Ring the bell, then, and take off your jacket. It’s making me uncomfortable just looking at you in it.”  
  
I shook my head. He could be so very bossy at times. Still, there was no reason not to obey, so I rose, tugged the bell pull, and whilst waiting for a servant to respond took off my stiff, formal jacket and waistcoat, unfastened my tie and collar, and slid my new dressing gown on over my shirt. “I do really like this,” I commented, brushing my hands on the velvet collar. “You have excellent taste.”  
  
“I knew the colour would look handsome on you,” he commented, smiling shyly.  
  
It did not take all that long for the servant to appear, nod, and head out to fetch the port. He had paused ever so slightly at the sight of Sherlock sprawled on my bed, but of course did not stare and especially did not comment.  
  
I asked Sherlock what he was going to be playing, and he rattled off a number of composers’ names and words such as “second movement” “marcia,” “sonata,” “accompanist,” and “fugue” (that was followed by an exasperated and rather rude noise). I was aware that during this diatribe, he had slipped into a rather fascinating pastiche of German, Italian, and French, with some English words thrown in (and those were not very polite and, I am fairly sure, American in origin).   
  
Despite our years together and my open admiration of his skill and talent, I had never really absorbed information of this sort. When we were going to a concert, he would always prime me with information so I could more fully appreciate the experience, which I did truly appreciate, and when we were home it didn’t matter because he would play what he knew I liked. It wasn’t that I didn’t have the capacity to learn it all; I just had no great need. I certainly could appreciate the heart-racing stimulation of one piece and the heart-breaking anguish of another.  
  
There was reciprocity in this—he could certainly have learned more about sport and horse racing, for example, but left that as my special interest that he enjoyed in small doses without any sort of commitment. (All right, yes—he did engage in it to the extent that he knew when my minor gambling inclination got a bit out of hand and he would—so graciously, so gentlemanly really and never with a fuss—lock my chequebook and cash in his desk drawer and suggest a diversion.)  
  
Perhaps it was because of this that, despite many, many opportunities to do so, Sherlock has never, ever truly disparaged my lack of musical knowledge. He did (despite his own protestations) understand that not everyone was interested in what intrigued and—truly in the case of music—compelled him.  
  
“… and he says absolutely no cadenza.”  
  
Oh. I had been wool-gathering. No harm done; he smiled affectionately at me and I returned the favour.  
  
The port arrived with two glasses. I thanked the servant (Mycroft would have grimaced at this—one is not supposed to acknowledge the servants’ existence, so to thank any of them for performing their job was gauche at best) and poured two generous drinks.  
  
Oddly, Sherlock requested that I lock the door to the corridor. I did so, glancing at the unlocked door leading to his bedroom. He shrugged casually. “It’s already locked,” he admitted.  
  
“Here,” I said, getting back on the bed. “Sit up.” He did and I handed him his glass.  
  
We sat for quite a while, discussing the other guests (well, it was more Sherlock telling me what he had deduced of their secrets and me laughing quite heartily about most of them) and drinking a generous amount of the port, which was exceptionally fine.  
  
“You’re tired,” I finally commented as my companion’s narrative flagged a bit. I took his empty glass and put it on the floor.  
  
“Not very,” he countered. “I don’t think I could go to sleep right now,” he added somewhat thoughtfully. “My head’s all full of Sir Albert’s predilection for wearing his wife’s feather boas and nightgowns.”  
  
I laughed out loud. “You really must be careful,” I scolded. “Some day you will get yourself into real trouble.”  
  
“Oh, it’s such a bother—all those rules,” he muttered.  
  
“You’ll injure someone’s feelings,” I pointed out, putting down my own glass.  
  
“So what? They wouldn’t give a fig if they injured yours, or mine.”  
  
He sounded so petulant that I laid my hand on his arm again. “What’s the matter?” I demanded. “Why are you so cross?” It unsettled me to see his mood change; I wanted to comfort him and cheer him up again.  
  
“I just get tired of it all sometimes,” he commented quietly. “Having to act correctly and say the right thing and explain why I haven’t read the latest books and hide what I’m feeling…”  
  
He suddenly rolled over onto his stomach, burying his face in the pillows, his fingers clenching them tightly.  
  
I admit now that my reaction to this was rather unseemly.  
  
I, John Watson, doctor and ex-army captain, realised that in this position I could see the curls at the nape of his neck, and that dressed as he was in a clean but unfastened and collarless shirt under his dressing gown, I could see the skin down nearly to his shoulders, and that I, who should have known better—  
  
I leant forward on my knees and kissed the nape of his neck.   
  
He stilled instantly.  
  
Sherlock’s skin tastes like nothing else I’ve ever had in my mouth. He is usually quite clean, and it seems to me that it tastes faintly of his soap and smoke and honey. I know that I should not make unseemly comparisons, but at that moment—that very first time that I truly tasted his skin—I realised that one of the reasons that I did not feel this way about my wife is that she did not taste like this. No. The few times I got through the many layers of clothing and her protestations that what I wanted to do was indecent, she had tasted _bitter._  
  
*  
  
Tasting. Smelling. Those two senses are inexorably intertwined. Pinch the nose, and a blindfolded person cannot distinguish between biting into a slice of apple or a slice of onion. Animals, of course, have this same connection. I recall many years ago, when I was quite small, we had a cat. One day when I had been trodding through something peculiar outdoors, she had investigated my boots quite thoroughly, and I had noted that her mouth was open. I asked my mother about it, and she had explained that our kitty was both smelling and tasting whatever it was she could sense—and then added would I please take those filthy boots outside and clean them and then come back in and clean the floor.  
  
So now, many years later, I was doing exactly what our cat—who had been named Thistle—had demonstrated. I opened my mouth, and whilst kissing the pale skin, I breathed it in as deeply as I could. It was heavenly.  
  
*  
  
“Mmm,” was all that Sherlock said. He was still—so still—beneath me. Leaning over him the way I was, my belly nearly touching his back and our legs intertwined, I could tell that he was no longer tense. No. He had become relaxed and languid and he turned his head slightly and I could see that his beautiful eyes were shut and there was the smallest of smiles on his lax lips. “More,” he sighed.  
  
I now peppered that bare neck with a flurry of kisses, lapping at it with my tongue on occasion. His smile widened. My mouth open, I ran my tongue across the taut skin.  
  
“I thought you said that we couldn’t do this anymore—that it is illegal and immoral,” he murmured.  
  
“I might have mentioned that,” I smiled wickedly.  
  
“But your behaviour seems to be at odds with your statement.”  
  
“Correct as always.” I sucked—very lightly—on his neck, just below his ear.  
  
He shuddered beneath me.  
  
“So… you… plan…” I could tell that he was attempting a witty retort of some sort, but clearly my lips on his neck was too much of a distraction.  
  
“I plan for you to roll over so that I may kiss you properly.”  
  
*  
  
He did. I did.  
  
I cannot do it justice. It was morally wrong and illegal and horrible and I would be barred from medical practice and he would be locked up and…  
  
I could have died happy that very second, and I know that this is blasphemy but I felt sure that I would still go to heaven because I was already halfway there and Sherlock was, if not an angel, at least on the side of them.  
  
God did not create such perfect lips not to be kissed.  
  
*  
  
In fact, I think that the fact that it was illegal and immoral made it that much more enticing and illicit and wonderful. I do not know what it is inside of me that makes me this way, but it is not the first time that I have felt a thrill whilst committing a crime.  
  
This was much nicer than breaking into someone’s house or throwing a smoke bomb and definitely miles above creeping along the Thames on a cold night with my gun in my hand.  
  
*  
  
“Your lips, Sherlock,” I murmured approvingly, stroking his hair and running my fingers along the hairline at the nape of his neck to feel the curls escaping that morning’s ministration of Macassar oil.  
  
He did not reply.  
  
Oh.  
  
He did not reply. Sherlock “Must Have the Last Word” Holmes _did not reply._  
  
Glory.  
  
*  
  
Breathing having apparently become a necessity, I broke from his glorious mouth and began to move down his neck, whispering endearments that intermingled with the softest of touches of my lips to his skin.  
  
*  
  
“God, John,” he murmured. He arched his neck and I eagerly mouthed it, wanting to suck on the pale skin until I raised a completely inappropriate…  
  
*  
  
“What?” he demanded, positively vibrating under me.  
  
“I can’t… we shouldn’t…” I sounded like an idiot—to myself.  
  
He looked at me keenly. “Ah,” he finally exclaimed quietly. “You are concerned that your more forceful—attentions—will leave a noticeable mark.”  
  
“Yes, I am,” I answered honestly.  
  
“Then make them where they will not be noticed,” he responded decisively.  
  
Oh, God. My entire body responded to that statement. I shifted above him. He glanced down along our bodies.  
  
“You are… reacting in a positive way to this stimulation,” he commented.  
  
I groaned. “If that’s your way of saying that my prick is stiff, yes. Assuredly. What about yours?” I ended my confession with a challenge.  
  
In reply, he pressed himself up toward me. Oh, yes. Most certainly. “Very nice,” I managed.  
  
“Can we… do something about it?” he whispered, back into his role as student.  
  
I considered it.  
  
I paused to consider it.  
  
I paused to enjoy what I was considering about it.  
  
He whimpered and tipped his head up and kissed my lips; my chin; my neck.  
  
“Wait,” I said, and he stilled instantly.  
  
“What is it?” he immediately demanded in concern. “Did I do something wrong?”   
  
“No, that’s not it at all,” I admitted.  
  
“Then what?” he whispered.  
  
“You absolutely understand that this is immoral and illegal.”  
  
“Yes, I do understand that, John. Does that mean that you do not wish to do more?” He sounded disappointed and frustrated.  
  
I had to take a deep breath. “Sherlock—I would like to do more—quite a bit more.”  
  
He looked at me keenly. “Meaning?” he finally demanded.  
  
“Sherlock, I would like to do more— _even though_ it’s illegal and immoral.”  
  
His mouth fell open. “You… want to do more?” he managed to stutter. “Knowing that it’s… wrong?”  
  
“Why are you so astonished?” I admonished. “I’ve broken into people’s homes; started cries of ‘fire’ falsely… let’s just say that I have done many illegal things for you and leave it at that, shall we?”  
  
He considered this. It was absolute fact. Back in my army days I was all about my duty to “Queen and country,” but after nearly dying whilst fulfilling that duty, my attitude had changed a bit. No longer did I feel a need to toe the line or abide by every rule. Do no harm was still and always will be my motto, but if it meant occasionally borrowing a horse without asking in order to prevent harm from being done to someone—well, that just didn’t seem to matter all that much anymore.  
  
“You taste absolutely delicious,” I continued. “I would like to taste more of you. Is that all right?”  
  
“What do you mean?” he asked, his lips more enticing than ever.  
  
“I mean that I would like to remove your clothing, and I would like to kiss you all over, starting with your beautiful face and going all the way down to your rather ridiculously large feet.”  
  
“My feet are not ridiculously large,” he laughed. I could see that his eyes, heavy-lidded, were dark, and he ran his tongue over his lips quite unconsciously.  
  
“They are. You could play the violin with them,” I teased.  
  
“What do I do whilst you are kissing me in that way?” My heart jumped. He had just given me permission.  
  
“You lie as still as you possibly can and let me do all the work,” I told him quite seriously.  
  
“Yes,” was his entire response.  
  
*  
  
I was a doctor, after all. I was his doctor, after all. I had seen him naked before. I had seen him at his worst, really. When someone is too weak to use the pot themselves, there is a vulnerability that is entrusted only to a very special person. I knew that I was his special person (and now that I reflected on it in this way, that night after my unseemly carousing at my club and his subsequent caretaking fell absolutely into this category). I had seen him at his most vulnerable.  
  
And now—now I just wanted to see him. All of him.  
  
I started by drawing off his dressing gown. “This is all very nice,” I commented as I guided it off his shoulders, “but a bit much for what I intend.”  
  
He shuddered and smiled and did not protest.  
  
He had, fortunately, divested himself of most of his formal outfit already. I eased his braces down over his shoulders and tugged his shirt out from his trousers.  
  
He smiled as I made him sit up and pulled his shirt and vest off entirely.  
  
“Now these,” I whispered. I unfastened his trousers. “Hips up.” I slid them and his drawers down. “Oh, so lovely,” I encouraged.  
  
Socks and sock garters and that was it (he had apparently not bothered putting anything else on after removing his patent-leather dress slippers). My love was laid out for me as naked as the day he was born.  
  
Not as innocent, of course, but as naked.  
  
“You are so beautiful,” I told him, sincerely. I brushed my hand over his ribs and stomach. I took notice of his cock being pleased at this attention, but did not touch it. Not yet.  
  
I began with his neck.  
  
I had already kissed his mouth enough that our lips were swollen in the most lovely way imaginable. I brushed past his chin and settled on the white skin beneath it. Lightly, lightly—the softest of kisses that I could manage down that gorgeous stretch. I paused so very briefly at his Adam’s apple—I think that somewhere in the back of my mind I was considering how often I had not encountered one—but now was not the time for that rumination.  
  
I wanted to stay forever in the dip of his clavicle. I am utterly convinced that his skin there tastes of nutmeg and cream and brandy.  
  
But I finally pulled myself away from it and moved down.  
  
I considered it. I considered them. I considered the fact that Sherlock had—well—some features on his chest with which I was familiar even though he lacked in others.  
  
I considered my medical knowledge—I knew that males contain just as many nerve endings there as females.  
  
I stopped considering when he took a deep breath and sort of—well—mewled in contentment and eagerness and enjoyment and encouragement and  
  
yes  
  
It does apparently not matter (at least to me) whether a teat is connected to a large, supple breast or a slim, taut one. I adore—absolutely adore—the feel of one in my mouth. I ran my tongue around it (it happened to be the right one—only because of how we were situated on my bed) and sucked gently at it and  
  
Oh  
  
Sherlock  
  
So very stiff  
  
You will just have to wait, my love.  
  
I sucked harder; rhythmically.  
  
“Oh…” he breathed, clearly overcome. I smiled and gave him a soft kiss before continuing my tour (one that I am sure would never appear in Baedekers). He was too thin; he had clearly not put any flesh back on his body since his marathon of activity that year. He needed to rest a great deal more, I decided—stay in bed. Yes. I was his doctor and I would order him to stay in bed and let me feed him and ensure that he slept. I lavished each rib with kisses and he squirmed a bit—apparently he was a bit ticklish.  
  
I buried my face in his nearly concave stomach. His breathing had increased in tempo and his skin was taking on a warm glow. I knew that I mirrored him. My own clothing was beginning to feel far too warm and restricting. He seemed to have noticed that as well, for he broke my rule by suddenly reaching for my chest, carefully pulling at the labels of my dressing gown.  
  
“May I? Please?” he murmured.  
  
I nodded and allowed him to undress me the way that I had undressed him. My skin tingled where his thin, white fingers brushed it.  
  
And then he made me laugh by collapsing back onto the pillows. “Continue kissing me, please,” he demanded.  
  
“Yes, sir.” I complied, happily.  
  
I resumed where I had left off. I found myself the smallest bit tentative now, for where I had left off—his flat stomach—was quite close to other parts of his anatomy. I wanted to fulfil my promise to him and kiss him from head to toe without getting distracted. It was a challenge.  
  
I like a challenge.  
  
Upon reflection, I realise that it was at exactly that moment I discovered that I had a hidden penchant (well, more hidden than others, apparently). That portion of the anatomy—particularly of the male anatomy—the juncture of taut stomach, bony hip, and slender thigh—I cannot express the effect that that portion of Sherlock’s anatomy on me. I wanted to bury my face in it.  
  
So I did.  
  
A moan? A groan? A sigh? I cannot adequately describe the sound that this elicited from my love. Or from me.  
  
I wanted to stay there forever.  
  
And then… the pull. Further. Go further.  
  
Too-thin thighs and ice-cold shins (that made me smile) and finally the ridiculously large feet.  
  
All mine. He was all mine. No one else’s. Ever. He had never been anyone else’s and never would be.  
  
I knew…  
  
By his stillness. By the tremor of his limbs. By his silence. By his murmured endearments and desperations. By his bright, keen eyes. By his heavy-lidded, dark-eyed stare.  
  
By the fact that he was there, with me, in my bed, both of us “bare” (as he so sweetly described).  
  
His voice. His intellect. His eyes. His humour. His music.  
  
He was mine.  
  
*  
  
We fell asleep intertwined, our bare skin delighting in the contact.  
  
That was enough for that night; enough for our entire holiday.  
  
*  
  
I think he slipped away from me at about five o’clock; back to his own bedroom and lonely bed. I longed to be back in Baker Street, where we could share a bed—sometimes his and sometimes mine—until it was time to rise.  
  



End file.
